


Severed Hearts

by devovere



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Death Rituals, Episode: s02e08 Persistence of Vision, F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Marriage, Post-Endgame, Tattoos, Trek Rarepair Swap, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 13:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devovere/pseuds/devovere
Summary: It’s the first anniversary of Kathryn’s death. Chakotay invited B’Elanna and Tom to Dorvan for a ceremony, but only B’Elanna shows up.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Helen8462](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen8462/gifts).



> Written for Round 19 of the Trek Rarepair Swap on Tumblr. Helen8462 (@jhelenoftrek) talked me into joining, and I was delighted to be assigned to write for her.
> 
> This story obliquely references my story “[Cupped Fists](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12933456).” It is not necessary to read that one first (although I certainly hope you will read it eventually!) 
> 
> The ritual, linguistic concepts, and other cultural elements depicted in this story are a hodgepodge of a few ideas from various cultures, indigenous and not, and more ideas from my own imagination. No part of my story is meant to represent any specific Native American culture or its people.
> 
> This story takes place seventeen years after Endgame but is not consistent with the Relaunch novels. Series canon does not figure greatly into this story but can be assumed as backdrop, with the notable exception that C/7 never happened. 
> 
> Warmest thanks to MiaCooper, who midwifed this story from some truly awful beginnings and past the hot mess monster draft stage over a period of weeks, as well as to LittleObsessions, who provided an additional last-minute beta read and said things that made me blush.

The two-week journey by civilian transport had been a bad idea, leaving B’Elanna restless and irritable, entirely the wrong frame of mind for this visit. She should have pulled strings to requisition a test shuttle, or something that would have offered more privacy, or, at the very least, found a ship making a direct flight. Through her weary aggravation, she berated herself again for her lack of foresight, for having thought that all that mattered was getting a nice long break from Jupiter station, from Tom, from their shared quarters that always felt empty now. 

Then she glimpsed Chakotay in the distance, coming to meet her flight, and chided herself more for thinking that anything had mattered besides getting here for him. 

She hadn’t seen him since the memorial service on Earth, almost a year ago. She didn’t feel she’d  _ seen  _ him even then. He’d been a ghost, and they’d all been in shock, puppets on autopilot in dress uniforms, the formality of protocol a bizarre refuge from reality. 

Chakotay’s sister had taken charge, removing him promptly to Dorvan. There had been messages back and forth for a time, neither B’Elanna nor Chakotay saying very much -- what could anyone possibly say worth a damn? Then there had been messages she sent to him, with no response. 

And then B’Elanna had run out of things she was willing to say, and there had been silence for months. 

You don’t, she reasoned, tell your newly widowed best friend that your own marriage is falling apart. That your husband, unlike your grieving best friend’s wife, is still alive and well but that you just can’t live together now that your child -- the goddaughter of your newly-widowed, childless best friend -- is grown and gone. Telling him would feel like ripping away his own family, what’s left of it. Like burning down his house while he’s away burying his wife. 

Not that there’d been anything left to bury. Kathryn Janeway was no more. No more than atoms drifting inexorably towards the nearest star. No more than memories made nightmarish by the raw grief left in her larger-than-life wake through so many people’s lives. The thought filled her with resentment and the desperate need to move to hit to fuck to  _ do something _ to push away the awful pointless mortality of it all. 

As he crossed the plaza towards B’Elanna now, Chakotay was clearly still floundering in the turbulence of that enormous loss. His hair, suddenly more salt than pepper, hung lank in his eyes, shoulders hunched around pain where his heart had been. She’d seen him with a beard before, but never one this unkempt. 

Looking at the changes wrought in him, B’Elanna suddenly wondered for the first time whether Kathryn’s death had helped to precipitate the dissolution of her own marriage. The thought felt profoundly selfish. She was here for Chakotay, at his request, to honor Kathryn’s memory. Not to blame it for her and Tom’s own shortcomings. 

He came to a stop three steps distant, hands in his pockets, eyes old over a smile too grim for dimples. “You came,” was all he said. His eyes flicked past her, then around the open space. Looking for Tom, she knew, but didn’t acknowledge. 

She felt eyes on them from the surrounding crowd. His presence was still magnetic; grief and pain hadn’t undone his essential charisma. His gaze returned to her and something faltered in his expression. She realized her arms were crossed over her chest. “Of course I came,” she replied, bending to pick up her bag. 

He began to reach out a hand as if to take it from her but then hesitated. Finally he just said, “This way,” and started walking back across the plaza toward the road. 


	2. Evasion

Chakotay had made a real dinner for a change but was now pushing it around on his plate instead of eating it. He’d been telling B’Elanna what she could expect tomorrow, at the ceremony. Calling up the long-unused persona of the anthropology lecturer he’d never been, he had described for her smudge pots of sage and willow, shamanic chants, the symbolic change of garb.

“It all cleanses the bereaved --” _himself,_ he meant, _only him_ \-- “of their association with death, and it marks the end of the community’s obligations to the chief mourners.” His lips pressed together tightly, reflexively holding back.

“What obligations?” she wanted to know.

He shrugged. “The things people do after a death. Food. Help around the place.” He saw her studying his drab little home, looking for recent evidence of such support. She didn’t ask why he wasn’t living with Sekaya’s family, after his sister had been so eager to get him back to Dorvan. He added, perhaps unwisely, “For me, extra prayers, mostly.”

She cast him a skeptical glance. “Why for you?”

He shrugged again. “I was gone a long time. Back from a great distance. Not many people here ever do that.”

“They think you’re some kind of lost sheep?” She sounded ready to take offense on his behalf.

“I was,” he answered, simple words in a dead voice. _Still am_ , he didn’t say, but he suspected it echoed in the silence of his small empty house.

There was too much food. He’d planned for two guests but Tom wasn’t here and his own appetite wasn’t much, knowing what tomorrow would bring. He knew he’d lost weight from the way his clothes hung loose on his frame, and he knew why: without a ship’s schedule or Kathryn to take care of, it turned out he was as prone to forgetting meals as she had been back on _Voyager_.

B’Elanna was thinner too, and he didn’t know why but did know she wouldn’t thank him for pointing it out. He watched her twisting her wedding ring; it fit loose on her finger, and it didn’t take an empath to add that to the new lines on her lovely somber face and come up with trouble.

He knew he should warn her about what would happen tomorrow, how the ceremony would really go when everyone saw what he’d done, but it would take explanations he couldn’t quite assemble even for himself yet, and more energy than he had tonight. B’Elanna could just be pissed with him later; the familiar was always reassuring, he thought, and almost chuckled.

She asked him, “When you’re … cleansed of death, or whatever -- what does that mean? Are there things you’ll be able to do, that you couldn’t before?”

The flash of warm humor turned cold in his gut. “Yeah,” he said, looking down at his uneaten meal. “I can plant crops -- not that I ever did. I can carve wood and throw ceramic pots for ceremonial use -- not that anyone needs me to do that either.”

He looked up and saw a half-amused quizzical look on her face. It made him irrationally angry. “And I can remarry,” he added, with a bite of cruelty. Her eyes widened. “Not that I’m going to,” he said flatly, as he stood and took his plate to the sink.

He considered bringing out the bottle he’d been saving, but Tom’s absence changed his sense of the occasion. He’d expected them to be here together and apparently he’d been counting on Tom’s easy-going, comfortable charm to buffer his own raw feelings from B’Elanna’s intensity, her engineer’s intuition for broken things that must surely need fixing.

He felt guilty for feeling so awkward around her. They went back what felt like several lifetimes now, all the way back to their years with the Maquis, when she’d been a brilliant, fiery slip of a girl who’d both loved and resented him for taking her under his wing. Not _loved_ loved, of course. Never that. He’d been twice her age then, even if he hadn’t yet learned from Seska precisely how terrible an idea it was to bed women under his command. _There’s an irony for you_ , he thought, in Kathryn’s general direction, wherever that might be, and brought his hand to his chest.

B’Elanna, clearing the table with him, noticed the gesture. “You okay?” she asked.

“Sure,” he replied. “Just fine.” By which he meant, his heart was still beating, though its purpose escaped him now. It had always had a mind of its own. Then, closing down any more lines of questioning she might have been preparing, he said, “We should get some sleep. We’ll be up really early tomorrow.” He saw the hurt look in her eyes, felt worse, and told himself he’d make it up to her tomorrow -- after the ceremony.

Later, lying sleepless again in the too-large bed that he’d never shared with anyone, he tried not to hear B’Elanna, moving around restless and probably lonely and no doubt time-lagged in the middle of Dorvan’s night. Tried not to think of Kathryn, and failed miserably. Feeling the insistent beat of the stubborn, contrary heart under his hand, he finally dozed. For once, he did not dream. 


	3. Rebellion

With the first rays of morning sun breaking through clouds on the horizon, B’Elanna perched on the low stool to which she’d been led almost an hour before. She was part of a small circle of witnesses to the one-year mortuary ceremony for Kathryn Janeway, late wife of Chakotay, son of Kolopak. Others in the circle were Chakotay’s close kin and neighbors, and three tribal leaders, one of whom beat with tireless hands an unwavering cyclical rhythm on a resonant drum. 

A deep pit smoldered near one edge of the circle, releasing fragrant smoke and a gentle heat in the chill air; the elders in the circle were positioned behind it. Some two meters before the pit, in the very center of the circle, Chakotay sat alone in the dirt, cross-legged and motionless. He faced his sister Sekaya, who was flanked by her husband and children. B’Elanna was positioned to Chakotay’s left. The sky, lightening behind him, cast his face in profile before her and obscured his tattoo in shadow. 

For at least half an hour, the village shaman had been dancing a slowly twirling shuffle within the circle, as those present passed a series of chants from one side to the other. As the sun finally rose, however, the shaman stopped shuffling at a point just behind Chakotay. There was a sudden, dramatic pause in the drumming and chanting as the shaman raised a wooden bowl and upended it over Chakotay. Fine dust poured down over his head, settling in his hair, on his eyelashes and shoulders, drifting in his upturned palms where they rested on his bent knees. 

A slight breeze carried an acrid scent to B’Elanna -- wood ash, like the campfires of her childhood, but with something else she couldn’t place, bitter on the palate. She wondered how Chakotay bore it without choking. She saw him swallow, his breathing shallow and eyes blinking furiously. 

The shaman cried out in a high-pitched voice, then seized the collar of Chakotay’s coarse brown tunic and pulled it upward. Chakotay raised his arms to let the garment be drawn from his body. Ash rose from his figure and hung close in the air, rendering the tableau hazy and muted. The shaman flung the tunic behind him to land in the pit. B’Elanna supposed it would burn there eventually, but for the moment it served to block the rising smoke. 

Chakotay slowly lowered his arms as gravity and the rising morning breeze cleared the air. Then B’Elanna heard a gasp to her left. As she turned her head to look, Sekaya rose to her feet and threw a bundle in the dirt before Chakotay. 

“How  _ could _ you, brother? You mock us all.” She grabbed each of her children by an arm and strode angrily away, shushing their protests. After a moment, her husband rose, sighing. He looked around the circle, then back at Chakotay, sighed again, and turned wordlessly to follow his wife. 

The shaman walked past Chakotay toward the gap left in the circle by his sister’s family’s departure. He then turned slowly to face Chakotay. Whatever he saw from this angle broke the spell of ceremonial reverence with which he’d carried himself up to now. He tipped his head to one side, raised his eyes skyward, then looked Chakotay in the eye. “What the fuck, man?” 

Chakotay shrugged. “Can we finish, or what?” 

The shaman looked to the tribal elders. Seeing their lack of comprehension, he told Chakotay, “Stand up and turn around.” Chakotay climbed to his feet, slowly and with some difficulty, then stood straight and proud as he turned in a circle. Exhalations and mutterings of anger and disgust followed the sight of his bare chest around the circle. Bewildered, B’Elanna noted the presence of a new tattoo that spanned his collarbone and left pectoral -- a large, vivid blue dragonfly -- but didn’t understand the significance or why it apparently was disrupting the ceremony. 

The elders conferred silently, then rose as one and left the site. One by one all the other witnesses followed suit, until only Chakotay, B’Elanna, and the shaman remained. 

There was a long silence. Finally, the shaman bent, picked up the bundle that Sekaya had thrown down, and shook it open and free of dust. It was a light blue shirt. The shaman held it a long moment, then said, “They say you always were a contrary.” He handed the shirt to Chakotay and watched while Chakotay pulled it on over his head. The dragonfly’s wings were just visible above the wide neckline. 

“Thanks, ‘Pelah.” Chakotay turned from the shaman, who stood with arms folded, shaking his head sardonically. Chakotay strode away, beckoning to B’Elanna to follow him. She rose, still confused and growing angry, but did so. 

“Oh, don’t mention it, Chakotay. It’s not as if I’ll be hearing the fallout from this for weeks to come or anything. Glad we could give you an audience for your little tantrum!” The shaman had to raise his voice to be heard as they walked away. 

Reaching the main road, Chakotay paused at a public spigot to half fill a bucket with water. B’Elanna stepped back just in time to avoid being splashed as he unceremoniously dumped it over his head. He swiped a hand down his face, then did likewise to each arm, leaving streaks of wet gray ash. He squatted to run a little more water from the spigot and drank briefly from a cupped hand. He finally looked at B’Elanna and gestured a silent question:  _ Want some? _ She shook her head, more in bewilderment over the recent proceedings than in denial of thirst. But he had already risen to his feet and was again striding onward. 

The walk back to Chakotay’s house was silent, as he seemed intent on ignoring B’Elanna’s hard, questioning glances. They passed homesteads waking for the day, people out doing chores. Chakotay acknowledged each greeting with only a brusque nod, never breaking stride. B’Elanna tried but failed to connect this hostile, self-absorbed man with the Starfleet captain he’d been a year ago, or the first officer he’d been on  _ Voyager  _ \-- hell, even with the angry Maquis leader she’d first known. 

Their walk was also long. By the time they entered Chakotay’s house, his shirt no longer clung wetly to his skin, and B’Elanna was footsore, thirsty, and hungry -- and her temper was well and truly up. As he carefully closed and latched the door behind them, she stood in the middle of the main room, hands on her hips, and glared at him. He leaned back against the door, spread his hands in invitation, and waited. She didn’t need to be asked twice. 

“Now that you’ve got me safely out of view, would you mind telling me just what the hell all that was about? What’s the problem with your tattoo? Why was everyone so angry about it?” 

“We aren’t supposed to permanently alter the body while we’re in mourning. It attaches death in a way that can’t be cleansed.” He answered her calmly, back in the cadence of a lecturer, explaining an abstraction. 

“And you  _ knew  _ this?” B’Elanna was irate. Of course he’d known it. He hadn’t been surprised or chagrined at any point during the ceremony. Chakotay didn’t bother to confirm what was obvious to anyone with eyes. He simply folded his long arms across his chest and gazed back at her steadily. 

The motion tugged his shirt collar down further, revealing more of the dragonfly. She stared hard at it, shaking her head slightly in puzzlement. “What does it even mean? Why a blue dragonfly? And when did you get it? Why?” 

“It’s a long story.” His tone made it sound final, like a dodge, not a door opening. 

“I don’t believe you.” She was shaking her head harder now -- not denying the truth of what he said but calling bullshit on how he was saying it. “You drag me all the way here from the Sol system for a ceremony you deliberately ruin, and now you’re trying to  _ shut me out _ ? What the fuck is wrong with you, you idiot?” 

Seemingly by way of answer, Chakotay walked across the room to the single kitchen cupboard, reached up high, and brought down two glasses and a bottle. He turned, placed them with deliberation on the table, and gestured B'Elanna toward a chair. 

She rolled her eyes. “It's barely 0800, Chakotay.” 

He shrugged, sat, broke the seal on the bottle. Looked at her. 

“We haven't eaten any breakfast,” she argued. But she was walking towards the table, so he poured their drinks. She sat, gave him a long look, and picked up her glass. 

“To absent … friends,” Chakotay pronounced, and knocked back a slug. B’Elanna sniffed, then sipped carefully. Whiskey, of better quality than she’d have thought to find anywhere near Dorvan. She sipped again and raised an appreciative, quizzical eyebrow. 

“We were saving it for our fifteenth anniversary.” 

B’Elanna did the math. Her anger ebbed just a tad. “That was six months ago,” she murmured. He looked at her, pain in his eyes. “Why didn’t you open it then?”

He looked away and drained his glass. Like he was drinking to forget, though she knew he couldn’t. Eyes on the tabletop, he muttered, “Didn’t want to drink it alone.” 

She stared at him in disbelief. “Why would you have to?” she demanded. “Chakotay, you are surrounded by your people here. That’s why Sekaya brought you back here. I thought that’s why you’ve stayed so long.” 

Chin almost to his chest, he shook his head back and forth -- not in denial, she thought, but in helplessness. He placed his empty glass next to the bottle, fingers curled around the base, and waited. She heaved a sigh, poured him another. But before he could raise it to his lips, she put her hand on his wrist. “Wait. Talk to me. What’s going on with you?” 

He swallowed, pursed his lips, blinked away tears. “I -- “ He broke off, shot her a desperate glance, took a drink. She waited. “I can’t be without her, ‘Lanna. I won’t.” 

She blinked, then said harshly, “Kathryn is dead, Chakotay. You can’t be  _ with  _ her.” 

“I know that, dammit,” he growled. “That’s not what I mean.” 

“Then tell me,” she responded, in an overly reasonable tone, “what the hell you  _ do _ mean.” 

“The people here. Our ways. None of it has room for her. For me to carry her … her memory. Who I was with her.” 

“How so? I don’t know your culture, not really. You have to explain things to me.” B’Elanna hoped that if she could just keep him talking, she’d figure out how he’d gotten his head shoved so far up his ass as to piss off his only surviving family members over the timing of a tattoo. 

He shook his head again, more slowly. Still helpless but trying to get a foothold. “We believe death is polluting, spiritually, but also ... dangerous to your health, if you’re too near it. So we have a lot of ways to keep distant from it. From corpses and such, of course, but more than that.” He lifted his glass but then put it back down, thinking.

“Like how?” B’Elanna prodded. 

“Linguistically. We never name our dead. Hardly ever. They can only refer to Kathryn as my … there’s a term for it; in practice it means ‘late spouse,’ but literally it means -- “ and he winced, choked back a sob. “It means ‘severed heart.’ Severed heart! To avoid  _ naming my wife _ , uttering the name ‘Kathryn,’ they stab a hole in my chest, every time!” His right hand went unconsciously to his left breast, thumb stroking the skin between the dragonfly’s wings. “Every conversation leaves me  _ bleeding out _ , B’Elanna. I’d rather be alone. I  _ am  _ alone.” 

“So you got the new tattoo … to not be alone? Or just to say ‘fuck it’ to the people here?”

His large hand moved inside his shirt to cover the dragonfly. His face grew more anguished. “I got the tattoo to remember her. On her birthday. Her sixtieth birthday.”

B’Elanna’s hand had slipped from his left wrist to her lap as he spoke. Now, on an impulse, she leaned over to embrace him, temple to his left shoulder, right arm across his upper back. “I wish you had called me sooner, old friend. You didn't have to face that day alone.” His muscles stiffened at her touch, and her words tore a sob from his throat. As his shoulders began to shake she stroked his left forearm, resting with fist clenched on the table. 

“Damn it, ‘Lanna! This wasn’t supposed to happen! She was riding a desk and attending diplomatic functions!  _ I _ was the one still flying dangerous missions. Of all the stupid fucking  _ mistakes _ , just a glitch in a warp core and she’s  _ gone _ with thirty other people? She was just a fucking  _ passenger _ !” 

B’Elanna just had time to wonder how long it had been since he had actually wept for his dead wife, and then he was shaking free of her, standing so suddenly his chair flew backward. His hunched posture had the look of a coiled snake. She had the presence of mind to snatch up the open bottle and the two glasses, securing them just before he roared and tossed the table away from them. It landed on its opposite edge and skidded almost to the door. 

Chakotay stood still, breathing heavily. She watched him, transfixed. She opened her mouth to speak without knowing what to say, and was shocked to taste salt, as tears ran from her face onto her tongue. She closed her mouth, swallowed hard, then turned away to place the glasses and bottle safely on a counter. She scrubbed at her face furiously, berating herself for losing control. 

She turned back to Chakotay in time to see him stumbling from the room. The bedroom door closed behind him, and she was shocked to hear him latch it from the inside, locking her out. 

“Fucking hell,” she said. 


	4. Rapprochement

B’Elanna kept herself angry. Fury kept her in motion while she teetered on the abyss of despair for her friend. Muttering not very quietly to herself, she put the furniture to rights, noting absently its solid wood construction -- a Dorvan specialty, and possibly Chakotay’s own work, she supposed. She capped the whiskey bottle and put it out of sight -- not in its original cupboard, but in a chest full of blankets and cushions by the fireplace. She washed and dried their glasses and returned them carefully to the cupboard. 

The house was getting stuffy as the day’s sun warmed the roof and walls. She opened windows for a cross-breeze and propped the back door open. The front door, she reasoned, could stay shut; perhaps that would be sufficient to deter visitors. 

Finally, she made breakfast, working with what she found in the small kitchen area. Eggs in a basket on the counter; bread wrapped in a dishcloth and left on top of the oven; butter, jam, and fresh berries in the cooling unit. She wasn’t much of a cook -- Tom would have done this with both confidence and flair -- but she managed to grill slices of the bread and produce passable boiled eggs with basic cookware she’d discovered in the cupboard. 

Leaving the food on the table, she took a deep breath, marched to the bedroom door, and knocked. No response. “Chakotay,” she called through the door. “Come out and eat.” Still no response. 

She wasn’t worried. She was livid. He had invited her here and was neglecting her abysmally. She knocked again, harder. “Last chance before I bust through this door, you  _ p’taQ _ !” She meant it, and knew he would believe her both willing and capable of making good on that threat. 

Sure enough, within seconds she heard his groan as bedsprings squeaked under his weight, and then his heavy booted tread approached the door. He unlatched it, paused a second, and then drew the door open, past his own body which was braced by one forearm on the door frame. He was hunched over as if in pain and swaying slightly, as if opening the door had thrown him off balance. 

Without raising his head, he glanced up to meet her gaze, and must have found it implacable. “Sorry,” he said, lowering his eyes. 

She stepped to one side and gestured him towards the table. “Food,” she said. “Get something in your stomach before you fall over.” 

=====

They didn’t say much over breakfast. Afterward, Chakotay insisted B’Elanna sit while he cleaned up from the meal, and then excused himself to bathe and dress. 

She used the time, and Chakotay’s slow and dusty net terminal, to check for messages from home. She was still fuming as she read but did not reply to the ones from work; starting tomorrow she’d have time on the transport to deal with everything her staff hadn’t been able to handle without her. The note from Miral, B’Elanna read and then re-read, smiling.  _ That’s my girl, killing it at the Academy, just like I knew you would _ . 

Her brightened mood turned brittle, though, upon finding a message from Tom; the first he’d sent since she left two weeks ago. She read the noncommittal subject line -- “ _ Hey” _ \-- and hesitated, drumming her fingers against her leg. Tilting an ear towards the bedroom, she heard the shower running. She’d have at least a few minutes to digest whatever her estranged husband had said before she’d have to deal with Chakotay and his problems again. She clicked the message open, and read. 

> _ Haven’t heard from you en route but I know how spotty those transport netlinks can be. Hoping you’ll get this on Dorvan. If so, tell Chakotay I’m thinking of him.  _
> 
> _ I didn’t want to do this in writing, but you wouldn’t talk to me the last time I tried.  _
> 
> _ The station’s annual housing reallocation process will start two days before you get back, and we’ll have the best pick of available units if we put our names in before then. So, it’s time to make a decision.  _
> 
> _ Are we going to live together or separately for the next year? Your choice, but if you choose to stay, you have to tell me what’s going to change. I don’t want to separate, but I can’t go on the way we have been.  _
> 
> _ \--Tom _

Heart in her throat, hot tears searing her eyes, she switched off the terminal.  _ Two decades and seventy-thousand light-years _ , she thought,  _ and it comes down to a station housing contract _ . 

=====

B’Elanna was standing at the back window, staring out at the land, lost in dark thoughts. Chakotay’s voice brought her back from far away. She turned and was startled to find him right in front of her; she hadn’t heard him approach. 

He’d shaved off his beard, and his whole appearance was transformed. Her thoughts immediately leapt far back in time as he ran a hand over his newly bare chin. In the early years on  _ Voyager _ the crew had found a hot springs resort during a shore leave. Chakotay had emerged glowing, more relaxed than she’d ever seen him before. Her palm grew warm as she imagined how his smooth skin would feel under her fingers. 

Glancing at the terminal, he asked, “Did you figure it out?” 

She blinked, snapped out of it. “What?” Her voice sounded husky to her ears. First she thought he’d read her disturbingly sensual thoughts, and then she panicked thinking he knew about Tom’s message somehow.  _ Get a grip _ , she told herself. 

“The network here. It doesn’t always work. Were you able to access your messages?”

“Oh.” She drew herself together. “Yes, I was. Thanks.” Then she waved her hand as if to swat away a bothersome insect and changed the subject. “Nice job with the razor. You look better.” 

“Yeah?” His smile, though brief, gave his face life. Her friend was back. 


	5. Confession

Chakotay took her to see the lake, almost a straight shot out the back door. They walked past fields green with spring growth, and then along a path that curved through a small sloping wood. He’d never learned how the wood had escaped the devastating Cardassian attacks a generation prior. It gave way onto a meadow of hip-high grasses and wildflowers -- blue and violet now, after the pink and yellow ones of springtime. Beyond this idyll lay the lake, shimmering blue in the sunlight, with another strip of green just visible on the far shore, beneath an equally blue sky.

“Wow.” B’Elanna stopped to take it in. The breeze in her rich brown hair made her look younger, more free, and the walk and sunshine had brought an appealingly rosy glow to her face. “You forget, on a space station, that there are places like this.”

He smiled proudly, filling his lungs with the fresh living air. “There is no place like this.”

She swatted his arm and rolled her eyes. “There are other planets with meadows and woods and lakes, Chakotay.”

“Yes, that is true,” he conceded the point, knowing his tone was still smug. “But my people worked hard to bring this ecosystem back to life after the war. I'll brag a little.”

She inclined her head to show respect.

Overlooking the rocky shore of the lake, they sat for a bit, and the mood grew pensive. Chakotay had the opportunity to study B’Elanna’s profile as she gazed out over the water. The troubled, distant expression of last night returned to her features, her thoughts clearly many light-years away.

When her eyes welled with tears, he broke the silence. “I’ve been selfish, B’Elanna. I should have asked last night. What’s going on with you and Tom?” A longing in her eyes made him feel she wanted to unburden herself. Still, when she opened her mouth to reply, to tell him, she found no words. _That bad?_ he thought. She looked down, swallowed, and visibly steeled her nerve.

“We’re splitting up, Chakotay. Most likely.” Her fingers drummed against her knee until she made herself reach down, pick up a pebble, study it. Then she seemed to realize what her refusal to meet his eyes might look like, and she abruptly looked up and directly at him. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” she said fiercely.

“What am I thinking?” he answered, patient tone covering an immediate suspicion.  

“That he cheated on me. That someone younger and prettier caught his eye and he -- “ she snapped her fingers. “Up and went.”

“OK, first, there could be no one prettier than you.” She scowled at the compliment, though her cheeks grew pink again. “But you’re saying that’s not what happened,” he added, inviting her to continue.

“No. It’s not.”

He waited.

“Miral left home.”  Pain swelled through her body and crested on her face with a dark grimace.

“Yes, for the Academy. And?”

“And, nothing. That’s what happened. To me and Tom. We raised our child and now we’re done. We’re just … done.” Her tone was flat, matter-of-fact. Like she was explaining something basic. Like she was trying to convince herself this loss had been inevitable.

He pondered that for a minute. She tossed the pebble away, then picked up a stone of a different shape and color and twirled it through her fingers.

“You’ll have to forgive me, B’Elanna, for being so obtuse, but I don’t understand.” She looked at him sidelong, as if suspecting him of teasing her.

“What is there to understand?” Her voice found an edge and balanced there.

“What raising a child has to do with being married.” He spoke grimly, trusting her to know he referenced his own abandoned dream, a grief far older than the one he now wore as a blue dragonfly on his chest.

She knew. It seemed to make her angry. “Well, I'm sorry,” she said bitterly, “that I can’t explain it better. But that’s how it is for us.” She propelled herself upward and took a few steps forward, crunching towards the edge of the lake. Suddenly she hauled her arm back and threw the stone as far away as she could, releasing a high-pitched grunt of effort, of protest. She didn’t stand to watch it splash into the water, but turned and started back for the house.

He didn’t follow, and she didn't wait.


	6. Cataclysm

B’Elanna woke to the smell of fresh bread and mushroom stew. Late afternoon sun slanted in through the guest room window, and she blinked, slow and stupid, watching dust motes float in the warm air. She hadn’t meant to nap so long, but the time lag, the pre-dawn waking, and the miles of walking in fresh air had left her dead on her feet by the time she’d returned to the house. And, perhaps, her spent, futile anger had been the final blow to her stamina. She closed her eyes, remembering Tom’s message, and her quarrel with Chakotay by the lake. 

She couldn’t hide in here until morning. She yawned, then rose quietly and rolled her head around on her neck, still groggy. The house was quiet, but the aroma from the kitchen told her Chakotay must be nearby. She went out to face him. 

She found him out back, in the shade cast by the house. He was folded onto a low stool, leaning back against the building. She saw the glass in his hand before she saw his face. He’d found the bottle she’d hidden that morning, or had opened another. Apparently the heat of the afternoon had driven him to ruin good whiskey with ice. 

She leaned back against the doorframe, arms crossed. Without looking up at her, he said, “Hungry?” 

She shrugged. “I could eat. Smells good.” 

He smiled, but the grimness was back. “It’s good to have someone to cook for. I’m glad you woke up.” 

She followed him back into the house. “Sorry about that.” He waved her apology away. 

“You were tired. Long trip, early morning.” He turned to the stove, lifted a lid, stirred. 

“And tomorrow I turn around and do it all in reverse.” She was surprised to see him wince, and then dismayed to see his face go blank again as he lifted his glass and drank. 

_ Fucking hell _ , she thought. It was becoming the refrain of her visit. 

They ate at the table again, seated across from each other. He’d directed her to light candles while he sliced the bread and ladled stew into their bowls. He’d poured her a drink without asking, though she acknowledged that telling him to skip the ice as he’d been reaching for it had given him tacit approval to do so. 

“So you’re leaving tomorrow,” Chakotay suddenly said. They’d been chatting about mutual friends,  _ Voyager _ ’s former crew and their whereabouts, catching up on the gossip. She had not been surprised to hear that Mike Ayala had visited a couple months after Kathryn’s death. He had not been surprised to hear that Harry Kim was three months into yet another deep space mission. She’d come close to strategically omitting the news that Naomi and her husband were expecting their first child, but reasoned that he’d be sure to hear it later from someone else. He’d grinned like a proud grandpa, then blinked back tears before swallowing what was left in his glass. 

Now he was asking about her travel plans, like he hadn’t known the itinerary all along. “Yes, tomorrow. Two weeks travel each way; I couldn’t swing more than a month away from the project, not and get it done by deadline.” She’d told him about work while they were walking to the lake, the next-generation transwarp engine that her team was refining, how once the technology was standard Dorvan would be a week closer to the Sol system. 

He took a breath. “Well, it really was good of you to come so far for such a short stay. For this, for me.” She could tell he was making an effort to be gracious but wasn’t getting very far with it. 

“When you invited me, I didn’t think twice, Chakotay. I think a lot of the others would have done likewise. Why didn’t you invite anyone else?” 

“I did.” She looked a question at him. “Tom.” 

Her face fell, jaw set. “Yeah. Well.” 

“Why didn’t he come, ‘Lanna?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” she bit out. “But I would  _ imagine _ \--” She looked down at her food and realized she wouldn’t be able to choke down any more. Pushing her dish away, she took a deep breath and finished the thought. “We can hardly live together on the station, let alone for two weeks on a crowded transport.”

“So, what did you do, flip a coin? Loser goes to Dorvan?” 

Outraged and deeply hurt, she objected. “No! How could you think that of us, Chakotay? I didn’t tell him not to come, and he didn’t tell me he wouldn’t go. It just … didn’t happen.” 

“You don’t talk about spending a month apart -- it just happens? What  _ do _ you two talk about these days?” She felt like squirming under his accusatory tone, and her anger mounted and grew focused. 

“Not very much. Nothing, actually. Maybe we never talked about anything anymore, except Miral. Maybe that’s where I fucked up my marriage. Or maybe after living with two Klingons for seventeen years, life with just one bores Tom to tears.” She snapped, lashing out defensively. “Why are you pushing so hard on this? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we can’t all have fairytale marriages with our soulmates!” 

His head jerked back as if she had belted him one. He carefully placed both palms on the table, then rose to his feet. “I’m sorry.” He looked at her steadily and she quailed inside to see him so wounded by her outburst. “You haven’t disappointed me, B’Elanna. Never think that. I’d have no right.” Then he turned back to the kitchen. She sat alone at the table feeling shamed, confused, and remorseful. 

When he returned to the table, though, he read disapproval in her glance at the fresh ice in his glass. “Relax. It’s just my second one.” 

“Second this afternoon, maybe. How much are you drinking these days, anyway?” She’d seen him hit the bottle hard, back in the Maquis and a couple times even on  _ Voyager _ . She knew he could drink a lot and still function, but that didn’t mean it was healthy. 

“Not enough,” he said bitterly. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m still walking around making bad decisions, aren’t I?” 

“Drinking more won’t help with that,” she said wryly. 

He snorted. “It will with the walking around part.” And they found themselves laughing, although neither really thought it was funny. 

By the time they stopped laughing entirely, they were seated in front of the fireplace, glasses in hand -- he’d topped hers up -- bottle on the floor at their feet. The short sofa had cushions piled against one end, next to a small table with wire-rimmed spectacles, so old-fashioned she thought they were decorative until he placed them on his nose.  _ Damn, that’s a sexy look _ . The thought flashed through her mind as he lifted the bottle to read the label. 

“2383.” 

“Huh?” She was still looking at his face.  _ Better back off on the booze, Torres _ .  

He pointed at the date on the label. “Twelve-year-old scotch. Classic.” 

“That was Kathryn’s idea, wasn’t it?” she guessed. “To buy it years ago, knowing it would be the perfect age for your next big anniversary.” 

“Yup,” Chakotay acknowledged easily. “She was always the planner, between us.” Then, after a beat, “For all the good it did, in the end.” He placed his glasses back on the end table, bent over to set down the bottle, and then stayed there, resting his face in his hands. 

B’Elanna’s heart broke, seeing her friend in such despair. “Come on, Chakotay. Don’t.” He didn’t move. “ _ Don’t _ ,” she urged, with more vehemence. “It did entire  _ quadrants _ of good. Don’t talk like her life was a waste, damn you!” 

His voice came muffled through his hands and through his tears. “Not hers, ‘Lanna. Mine.” 

“Oh, for Kahless’s sake, now you’re just being maudlin.” Exasperated, she stood and began to pace before the fireplace. “Chakotay, I get that you’re grieving. Of course you’re grieving. But you are still alive, with  _ decades _ ahead of you and a lot of people who love you.” 

He raised his head slowly to watch her. “None of that  _ helps _ now. She died too young, but … I’m too old already. Too old to start over, to rebuild it all.” 

“What do you have to rebuild? You could go back with me tomorrow and they’d have you in the big chair again by year’s end.” But he was already shaking his head no at her words. 

“I resigned my commission, ‘Lanna.” 

“Ask for it back! They shouldn’t have accepted your resignation so soon after losing your wife -- that was unconscionable, honestly! Owen  _ never _ would have pressured someone in your position to make such a big decision --” 

“Nobody pressured me, all right? And I don’t want it back! I only stayed in so long to please Kathryn!” 

That stunned her into stillness. His career in the captain’s chair had been illustrious, record-setting. She spun on her heel to face him. “To please Kathryn? How can that be? Your careers kept you apart as much as together all those years!” 

“Exactly, B’Elanna! Exactly!  _ That’s what she wanted _ !” he roared. Now he surged to his feet, pulling at his hair with both hands. She suddenly knew with razor-sharp clarity that she was hearing what he had never told anyone: the truth about their fairytale marriage. 

“The love of my  _ life _ ! I knew it was her from the first day we met. I spent seven years waiting for her to love me back -- not because I  _ wanted  _ to but because I couldn’t do otherwise, no matter how hard I tried to stop.” He threw his arms wide. “Then the miracle happened, and we were home, and I was free, and she was free too -- we could love each other, we could marry … and she never --” Ragged sobs were tearing out of him now, fists clenched against his eyes like he could hold them back by brute force. 

B’Elanna couldn’t tear her gaze from his agony, his collapse. “Never what, Chakotay?” she heard herself say, and shuddered, dreading the rest. 

“-- never wanted what I wanted. Not completely. Not  _ enough _ . Children. A real home together.” 

He circled the couch, stumbling, half-blind with grief and heartache, a grotesque echo of the shaman’s dance that morning. He halted, his back to B’Elanna. 

“ _ Me _ .” The single word emerged like a detonation. “She … never entirely wanted … all of me.” 

“Chakotay,” she pleaded, walking around to face him. “Come  _ on _ . Anyone who saw the two of you together … you were crazy about each other. She  _ loved  _ you. She did -- don’t  _ ever _ doubt that.” 

“Then  _ why _ .” He bit back the rest, his lower lip between his teeth. 

“Why what?” She reached up to yank his hands down from his face. “What, Chakotay?” 

Her verbal prodding and her touch suddenly unleashed in him something feral, ferocious. “ _ Why _ did she stay so distant for so long?  _ Why _ did she put Starfleet first, every fucking time?  _ Why _ did she take other lovers? Even back on Earth, ‘Lanna!” 

His words and the wild expression on his face shocked her so badly her defensive reflexes failed her. The next thing she knew, his bulk had her pressed against the wall by the fireplace, his hand at her throat. 

“I was always faithful to her, once we could be together.” His voice rasped, low with fury. “I never  _ once _ looked at another woman. But now -- “ 

Her breath was coming in gasps, drawn almost painfully past the pressure of his hand against her windpipe. His eyes, still red with weeping but hooded now with desire, were locked on her mouth. She bared her teeth, suddenly seized with the impulse to sink them into his jaw. 

“What is this?” she snarled, clinging with growing desperation to her anger and impatience -- all an act, she realized, a pitiful covering for her deep attachment -- and attraction -- to her old friend. “What are you doing?” 

He raised his gaze, and her pulse quickened at the laser intensity of his black eyes. Evidence of his rising desire nudged her abdomen. She gasped again and felt a rush of heat in her loins.  _ This can’t be happening _ , she thought.  _ This is Chakotay _ . 

A long-suppressed memory rose from within and flooded all her senses:  _ Voyager _ , Engineering, an alien-induced hallucination drawn from deep in her subconscious. “ _ I want you. I’ve always wanted you _ ,” he’d said. “ _ You feel the same way too _ .” 

She did. Her body screamed for his. She watched in fascinated horror as his nostrils flared, knowing he was catching her scent, that her body’s reaction spoke in a language he couldn’t fail to notice. His fingers tightened infinitesimally on either side of her throat, and he raised a trembling left hand to grip her shoulder hard. 

“B’Elanna,” he muttered, eyes searching her face. She watched the struggle playing out on his: want, confusion, raw pain, then back to desperate hunger, pleading without words. 

Almost, she gave in. Almost. She couldn’t say after just what had stopped her. She would hope, later, that it was her marriage vow, but she suspected it was something even older: the debt of loyalty she owed to Kathryn Janeway. All she knew in the moment was that whatever Chakotay was seeking with such voracious need in his eyes, it wasn’t her, B’Elanna Torres. Not really. 

She let her lips close over her teeth, gathering herself. Then she pulled the mask of anger back over her features and knocked his hands away with a sudden violence that he didn’t try to resist. He took a step back, putting space between their bodies. Still, her own blood ran hot, and she had to resist the instinct to drop into a fighting crouch, prelude to Klingon mating. Instead she stood straight and square and merely stared Chakotay down. After a long moment of burning eye contact, he turned his face away and let out a sigh. 

When she felt sure he had accepted the impossibility of whatever had just pulled them so close to the brink, she finally dared to slip past him and stride wordlessly from the room. Closing the guest room door behind her, she considered locking it but knew she had far more to fear from herself than she ever would from Chakotay. A deep and helpless rage rose within her, for Kathryn Janeway and whatever had made her so callous, so selfish and unfeeling and detached from the man who loved her … 

Suddenly she saw  _ herself  _ in those adjectives and heard for the first time the bewildered pain in Tom’s last message to her … and the dam broke within. 


	7. Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes: Several lines in this chapter are borrowed or modified from the episodes “Shattered” by Michael Taylor and “Year of Hell” and “Scorpion” by Brannon Braga and Joe Menosky, and the novel _Mosaic_, by Jeri Taylor.

Chakotay stood motionless but for his heaving chest, feeling a numb and distant gratitude that B’Elanna hadn’t stayed, hadn’t tried to make him talk about what he’d done, what they’d both felt. He picked up his tumbler, swirled the last fragment of melting ice around once, then gulped it and the rest of the liquor down. Perhaps if he kept drinking he could find a way to float above the memories of times he’d only lately come to think of as happier -- the years on Voyager, even the years he’d spent in open warfare knowing any given day could be his last. 

An image rose to mind of the girl B’Elanna had been then, swearing at the  _ Val Jean’s _ systems almost as hotly as she cursed Cardassians and Starfleet alike. She had been such a bright spot in his dark and angry life. What had happened to her fire? Now her defining anger held more bitterness than spark. He’d made a careful and conscious decision, back on  _ Voyager _ , to entrust her to Tom Paris. They’d been good together for a long time. What had happened to them? 

He felt shame on several levels for his actions this evening, and more shame at feeling relief that, whatever damage he’d done to his friendship with B’Elanna, he hadn’t been the cause of her and Tom’s troubles. 

Hours and still more whiskey later, he slept, fully dressed, in bedding smudged with ash. His last thought as he drifted under, as it had been every night for a year, nearly every night for a quarter century, was of Kathryn. 

This time, she answered his call. 

He knew that he was dreaming, that he slept alone in a bed in a house on Dorvan. At the same time, he knew himself to be on Earth, at the crossroads half a mile from the old Janeway farm in Indiana, where two county roads met at right angles. It was a long way for his spirit to have walked unaided, and so he knew he’d been summoned. The roads and sky were empty, the sun high overhead. The corn was tall in all directions, and the noise of locusts rose and fell in waves in the heavy warm air. 

He was pulled to face north like the needle in a compass. He saw her walking towards him, in the middle of the silent roadway, coming from a distance at a sure and steady pace. Red command uniform, perfect posture, hair in that bun she’d worn when they met. She came just close enough for her firm and husky voice to carry, then stopped and said, “There are some barriers we never cross.” 

He was compelled now to turn away. He fought it, fought to keep his eyes on Kathryn’s perfect face, groaned as his line of sight was dragged beyond her figure. Found himself facing south, and a Kathryn he’d never seen, quite. Her hair was still dark, but short, barely reaching her chin. Her body was frighteningly thin, arms bare in a gray tank top, face badly scarred and smudged with dirt, eyes hollow with privation and despair. He knew he was well fed and housed in comfort as she suffered, and a soundless wail rose from his throat. 

Her grim mouth didn’t move, but he heard her voice say clearly, “I'm not going to stand here while you rationalize yet another brush with death.” She raised an arm, not reaching but pointing towards him, and declared, “Time’s up!” 

He spun abruptly to the right, facing west, and there was his Kathryn, his cherished wife, the stern admiral with blue eyes that glinted warm just for him. He opened his mouth to call her name, to tell her how much he had missed her, how desperately he still loved her, how utterly remorseful he was … but before he could speak, she gave him the crooked half-smile that had been their special signal, and told him, “Do your best, but don’t be unnecessarily heroic.” 

Overwhelmed with emotion, needing her in his arms more than he needed air, he coiled every muscle and flung himself towards her. All he accomplished was to spin in place like a weathervane, until at last he was facing east. 

As he stood, waiting, the light gradually dimmed. The whirring of the locusts slowed and faded as an odd twilight descended, and in its place the birdsong of evening emerged, faint and tentative. As stars emerged on the horizon, he looked up, baffled, and saw a ring of fire surrounding the blackened disc of the full moon. 

He stood, entranced, mouth open in awe. He had seen every astronomical wonder from Dorvan to the far end of the Delta Quadrant, but never had he stood on the soil of his species’ homeworld under the sun in total eclipse. 

He looked down, to the east again, and saw Kathryn, what he knew to be her spirit, as she was now, as she had ever been. She glowed, brilliant and terrible in perfect nakedness, all spirit, all heart, all flesh, all mind. He fell on his face, as one must in the presence of the holy. 

“You’re not alone, Chakotay.” With his face in the dust and his eyes screwed shut, he nonetheless saw her radiant face as she spoke. Then, though she faded from his sight, her voice continued in his mind. “ _ You’ve never been alone … no more than I was _ .” 

After a long, long time of rushing darkness and a terrifying sense of disorientation, he opened his eyes. He felt his heart beating strong and steady under the dragonfly, knew the life force driving his pulse was not entirely his own, that he carried her within and upon him. Never alone. The bedroom was still dark, but he sensed it was near dawn. As he breathed, remembering, feeling, he understood what he needed to do. He rose, untroubled by the bodily complaints of too much alcohol and too little sleep, hastily washed, and put on yesterday’s blue shirt. 

Approaching the guest room door, he paused, thought of knocking, but couldn’t bring himself to ask more of B’Elanna, and couldn’t wait for her to wake. As he was turning away from her door, however, it opened, and she stood in the doorway, dressed, the bed behind her made up with her bag filled and closed upon it. 

They stood looking at each other for a long moment, and then Chakotay said, “‘Lanna, I’m sorry. I was an ass to you all day yesterday, and my conduct after dinner was deplorable. I’m sorry that you came all this way just to see me at my worst.” 

She raised an eyebrow and replied, “Impressive. Apology accepted.” Then, looking him up and down, she added, “You look like you’re going somewhere. Another dawn ritual?” 

Bashfully, he looked down, smiling, and said, “Actually, yes. But a lot simpler and closer to home this time. Would you like to help?” She straightened, motioned him to proceed, and walked after him. 

When he collected the whiskey bottle from the cupboard, she began to protest, but he raised his hand and said, “Not that, not this time. Trust me.” For some reason, she did. He put the bottle down in the middle of the main room, equidistant between the two doors, front and back. 

Chakotay opened both doors, then returned to the bottle on the floor. Picking it up, he opened it and pocketed the cap. Glancing at B’Elanna, he said, “This way first,” and they walked out the front door, north. Stopping near the road, Chakotay asked his ancestors to aid him in his path forward, and then poured some whiskey onto the ground, saying, “Some barriers cannot be crossed.” 

They walked back into and through the house, going some distance toward the cultivated field behind his place. He promised his mother’s spirit, “No more brushes with death,” and poured more whiskey on the ground. 

Leading B’Elanna carefully through the still-shadowed twilight before dawn, he went around to the west end of the building. The neighbor’s dog barked, but no one else was out yet. He reached out with his heart to his father’s spirit and said, “I’m doing my best. I know you did too.” More whiskey splashed into the soil. 

Handing the bottle to B’Elanna, he motioned for her to lead the way eastward. The sky was growing light as they rounded the house and found themselves overlooking more fields, with birdsong rising from the trees beyond. He shuddered, recalling his vision of the eclipse, and knew he had to embrace the earth fully now. He sank gracelessly to his hands and knees, then went down on his stomach, limbs spread wide, chin in the dirt. He closed his eyes, felt Kathryn’s love swell within him, and recited the last line: “No one is alone.” Turning his face to the ground, he muttered, “Pour, B’Elanna.” She upended the bottle a few feet beyond his head. 


	8. Epilogue

Chakotay borrowed the truck again to take B’Elanna to the transport field. Sekaya was still talking to him, so that was something. He still needed to clear the air with her, but he knew she would forgive him. Family meant more to them both than custom or religion. 

He had tried again half-heartedly to convince B’Elanna to stay longer, even though it would be a week until the next transport, but when she said she needed to get home to Tom, he shut up. She didn’t say more, but she had a different look about her, and he hoped it boded well. 

The drive passed mostly in silence, both of them thinking, but finally B’Elanna said, “I’m sorry for what I said, about fairytales and soulmates. It was … juvenile. Not fair to you or to Kathryn.” 

He thought about that as he slowed to wave through the window at a neighbor. He swallowed, nodding slightly, then said, “The last time I talked to Kathryn, I told her I was ready to retire, and I wanted her to retire with me. I wanted a home and I wanted her there with me.” 

He felt his face fall into the practiced grimace that had carved new lines of grief in his face this past year. He took a deep breath. “She told me she’d always known she would lose me in the end. Said she was alone after all.” Abruptly he pulled over to the side of the road. The silence in the cab was deep and total. He couldn’t look at B’Elanna. 

“I … loved her. So much. All I ever wanted to do was stay by her side and share her burdens. But she kept me at arm’s length, a lot. I stopped trying so hard. And then she died thinking she was alone.” Tears were rolling freely down his face now. 

“Chakotay.” Her voice too was thick with tears. “If only you could have seen what the rest of us saw.” He looked over then and saw nothing but compassion in her eyes. “You balanced her. You completed her. She wasn’t one to talk about it much, but it was so clear that she cherished you.” 

He opened his mouth to protest, to question, then closed it. Listened to B’Elanna’s meaning and how it echoed his vision. Still, like a little child, his plaint: “She got so angry with me, though. And that last time … I was furious.” 

She took his hand, stroked the back of it. “We love people so imperfectly. I guess we can’t help it -- the flaws, or the loving. And … people say things when they’re angry. Things they don’t really mean. Fears they carry with them, maybe, that they  _ know  _ aren’t reality.” 

He raised his hand to caress the side of her face. She raised hers to wipe the tears from his. They leaned in slowly and shared a gentle kiss of friendship, accepting and forgiving, saying goodbye. 

If there was a little frisson of carnal heat, a glimmer of something more … it was easy to smile and let it be. This was better. 

=====

Boarding the transport, B’Elanna kept her bag on her shoulder and went straight to a netlink. 

> _ Re: Hey _
> 
> _ I’ll stay. I want you with me.  _
> 
> _ Changes: I want us to start arguing again. I miss that. And making up.  _
> 
> _ And let’s plan a trip together. Not just to see Miral.  _
> 
> _ Dorvan is nice.  _
> 
> _ \--B _

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. I invite and appreciate feedback, including:
> 
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> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta) may be a useful resource for some. 
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